Redheaded Stepchild
by Lint
Summary: Bon Temps, it seems, is the backwoods boondocks ass end of nowhere. Jessica, post Nothing But the Blood.


Old habits.

Crouched around a corner, listening in when you're not supposed to. Yes, you did as he said, but following instructions to the letter is something you've never been good at.

Doesn't take a genius to figure out this human (still feels weird thinking this way) is far more important to Bill than you are. That he'll drop anything to make Sookie (what kind of name is that?) Stackhouse happy.

Holding a hand to your mouth, eavesdropping comes so much easier dead, trying to keep your presence hidden as you pick up heated words, trust a main topic. Lies another. She comes up, and it seems like it's about a whole lot more, but the details are scarce, and you're not that interested anyway.

It's a familiar conversation, one you used to hear a lot once upon a time. Daddy would have too much wine at dinner; rattle off about Mama's past sins, arguments that used to scare you stupid, the way she'd look at you directly. It all seems so far away now.

Mama never answered when you asked what Daddy meant, adults never give straight answers, they'll lie right to your face and call it protection. Bill isn't beyond that, using almost the exact same words, lying about your existence in the guise of her best interests.

Somehow love gets tossed in there, and suddenly you're not so interested anymore, because come, yuck.

Daring to peer around the corner, catching sight of them fleeing up the stairs, their footsteps echoing throughout the empty cave of a house. Guess the fight must not have been anything worthwhile after all.

Head tilted upward, barely seconds after a door slams you hear them, grunting like animals in a way that Mama and Daddy never could. Involuntary shiver down the spine, listening to them is exactly like that, and it makes you sick.

Making way back to the couch (god he doesn't even have a TV what the hell does he expect you to do?) sniffing disgustedly at all the half empty bottles of True Blood.

Shit blood more like it, never tasted something so disgusting in your whole life, like warm copper swirling in your mouth burning all the way down.

What was the combo again? A negative with B positive?

Nothing so sweet as what Eric let you taste.

His house, his rules. Just like daddy. Do this, do that, wear this dress it's more acceptable.

What's the point of being dead if everyone is just going to treat you the exact same way as when you were alive? Where's the fun, the adventure, the freedom?

You miss Fangtasia, Eric, and Pam even though she was bitchy and mean most of the time you were there. At least it was filled with people, who were more than willing to let you taste, so many necks to nip and smiles to follow. And the music, the dancing, the wearing whatever you wanted, doing what you wanted.

Now you're cooped up in this big old house with the worst maker ever, while he ruts with his human girlfriend, and all you want to do is scream.

/\/\/\

The impending sunrise feels like a million ants crawling on your skin, shifting and sweating on the ratty old couch, a sense of dread flowing throughout your whole body.

Sookie comes down the stairs with a disgustingly satisfied flush, and even though she was nice to you earlier, you kind of hate her. At least she doesn't do something stupid like wave good-bye, like she didn't just spend the last forty minutes making your ears bleed. It takes all your will power not to shout something snotty.

Bill is right behind her, and soon as the door is closed he walks into the room.

"I thought I told you to retire."

Really, who talks like that?

Looking down in your lap, an odd sense of shame, all sarcasm falling away.

_It's cold in there_ is all that comes out.

Cold and lonely, and no way can you sleep like that.

Something in him softens, he's not going to yell anymore it seems, as he offers you his hand.

"You may accompany me if you like."

In all his post coital satisfaction too, _ew_.

Still, you take the offered hand as he guides you to the spot in the floor he'd talked about earlier.

Lying there, curled up in a purely platonic way, you can smell the sweet flowery scent of fresh blood on him and for a second you can't believe he fed off her. After all his talk, all the disgusting synthetic cough syrup he all but forced down your throat, he's free to bite whoever he wants?

_If you can why can't I?_ You want to scream, but there's just no energy left.

Instead your fangs flash, slowly nuzzling closer and pleading.

Please, _please_ you're so hungry.

He resists, because all he ever seems to do is resist, telling you to be still. But you snivel and whimper and it works like it always had when you were alive.

"Just a small amount," he says gruffly.

Promising as you bite, _oh_, oh it's like honey.

/\/\/\

He treats you like a pet more than a person, the way he says your name like a single word from your mouth uses up all of his patience.

Well soooooorry, but you don't know anything about being a vampire, hell you barely knew anything about being human before he took that away. He always looks super guilty when you point that out, as if your existence is the greatest crime he ever committed.

Seriously, on top of all the things he wants you to learn (even though he's a pretty crappy teacher) what are you supposed to do with that?

He longs to be human again, it's so pitifully obvious, and it's fun how angry he gets whenever you toss that gem in his face.

Sent to your hole without any supper, boo-hoo, what will you do without your daily dose of battery acid?

And Sookie Stackhouse, who goes so far out of her way to be nice, that it somehow makes it worse. She knows you're her number one competitor for Bill's attention now, and she hates you a little for it, you can tell. She puts that forced smile on her face whenever she talks to you, strawberry jam on top of horseradish, and it's so _fake_ all you want to do is rip out her throat and taste the sweetness Bill let you have once.

/\/\/\

You run off because you didn't separate glass from the plastic, and Bill thought it a prime opportunity to turn disciplinarian. He lectures on the importance of organization, and god it's so boring you want to tear your eyes out. Being a complete brat comes natural, so letting it out full force for something so trivial is nothing new, and Bill's shocked face those first few seconds are completely worth it.

Sent to your room, the one claimed as yours anyway, like you're six years old, shouting every profanity you've ever learned screeching and stomping loud enough to rattle pictures. He doesn't come after you like you knew he wouldn't, probably thanking his lucky stars he finally has a break.

Not sure how this room is yours exactly, not having anything of your own anymore, no could tell it from any other in the house.

Catching sight of yourself in the old fashioned mirror, small streams of red flowing down your cheeks, the sudden need to be anywhere but here overtakes you. Quickly wiping away the tears, grabbing a few of the clothes Bill gave, you put on whatever looks the least like you used to be, and walk over to the window.

Pretty high up, but you've got a feeling, and leap without looking.

On the ground with little more than an _oomph_, you almost bite your finger off keeping the triumphant shout at bay.

No idea where you're going, knowing nothing about this town, you do like the stupid cartoon bird and follow your nose.

/\/\/\

Bon Temps, it seems, is the backwoods boondocks ass end of nowhere.

The one place you find that's actually open, is some kind of bar and grill that suddenly appears in the middle of the woods. The name sounds familiar, though you can't remember why, smelling the sweet savory scent of fresh bodies inside, you make your way to the door.

It's the kind of place Daddy would have loved, dead animals all over the walls, beer and liquor flowing all around. The lights are brighter than you've been used to the last few weeks, and every stares because you're an unfamiliar face.

No one seems to suspect what you are at least, still a baby lamb in a way, not walking with any of that undead swagger the older ones have. And that's good, because even though there's a confidence you could drain every one of them before they could touch you, it just isn't a smart idea.

You walk right up to the bar and try to order a drink, but the bartender who looks about as old as you do, isn't buying so neither are you. Not really sure if it would have gone down anyway, but damn it you wanted to try.

Asking for a cherry coke instead, perching on one of the stools, it feels so good to be out you laugh for no apparent reason, and bartender girl looks at you like you're crazy but doesn't say anything.

Looking around, you can smell them all, hear the blood pumping in their veins, and oh, maybe this wasn't such a good idea because your stomach roars you're so damn hungry and nothing those cooks are making behind the counter will ever satisfy it.

Of course that's the moment a bumbling, but cute, local sits next to you with a shy smile and mumbles an introduction. He asks if you're from around here, which technically you are now, but you shake your head and play dumb because you know he's going to buy whatever story you sell him.

It's fun pretending to be somebody you're not, something Eric told you once about luring in prey. Play along nicely, tell them what they want to hear, and they're all yours.

Hoyt is his name, and he says you have the prettiest hair he's ever seen, sounding so earnest he might actually mean it.

It's hard not to stare at his neck, to see it pulse with life, to want so badly to drink it all away. Your stomach rumbles again, and you play it off with a laugh, embarrassed. He tries to make small talk, and it seems so difficult for him you almost feel bad.

He smells good though, you bet he tastes like a strawberry sundae, and are about to ask if he wouldn't mind, maybe talking outside.

Then suddenly Sookie, the reason the name of this place sounded familiar, comes walking out of the back, eyes wide and mouth open at the sight of you here.

Her words are not kind, Hoyt looks sheepish discovering what you are, and bartender girl starts swearing a lot and saying she knew it.

/\/\/\

All you want to do is (un)live the way you're meant to. The way this body was made for. To come and go as you please, to wander the woods with the wolves, to drink from someone's throat until you've had your fill.

But no, you're stuck sitting on the piece of crap couch that smells like moth balls and grandma, listening to the berating sounds of Bill tell you why you're too young to be on your own. Why it's dangerous because people will try to hurt you and blah blah blah.

And if it isn't bad enough listening to him ramble on, Sookie has to jump in with her opinions as if she has a place to give them. She wants to know what you would have done to Hoyt. She wants to know if you would have killed him had you gotten the chance.

No smartass answer in your reservoir, no answer at all, because you would have. You would have left his cold lifeless body in that parking lot and felt a hundred percent better because you'd have finally gotten to eat.

Your silence is damning enough because now she's shouting at Bill like it's his fault you were there, like he has you on some kind of leash, and you're about to interject when they both turn to you at the same time and yell _be quiet_ in unison.

Folding your arms across your chest, you glower at them, helpless to do anything but.

You hate Sookie Stackhouse.

You hate Bill Compton.

You hate mainstreaming, True Blood, and this piss ant backwater town.

But mainly you hate being a vampire because it's absolutely nothing like you thought it would be.


End file.
